


Arsenic Hour

by ballantine



Series: Departures [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:40:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“You think I would have gotten on that shuttle if I didn't have a plan to get off of it?”</em>
</p><p>How Charles ended up on that shuttle.</p><p>(Hint: it wasn't exactly part of the plan)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little side story in the Departures series, taking place immediately before the events in [ A Back That's Strong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933680). I'd recommend reading that one first, as the setting and characters might not make quite as much sense otherwise.

Charles was on holiday.

(“Shore leave, _baby_!” he shouts that first night before ordering a round for the whole bar.)

 

He had a week, and the plan was to relax a bit, maybe get some recreational reading in. See the sights. It wasn't often he got away from the ship and had some time to himself.

(Second night and dinner without a glass of wine at such a fine establishment would be a shame. He gets to talking to the couple at the table next to him on the patio, and they end up sharing a bottle or two before moving the party upstairs.)

 

Cerebro was docked for resupply a two days away at Station 3. Raven had insisted he take the time off before the next influx of students, get away and absorb some real Vega rays for once. Hank, after a sharp elbow nudge from Raven, had assured him that the ship was due for some routine maintenance checks anyway. Cerebro himself remained suspiciously quiet in the back of Charles's mind.

(Third night and he's alone and young in one of the most exciting cities in the System and really, what's he limiting himself for, here of all places, it's not like he'll continue when he's back up in the black –

– and that's when Raven comms him.)

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I hope you're not too far down the bottle to call Morgan,” Raven said, peering at him through the screen as if she could divine his state from his pixellated image. “This is actually a serious case, so you're going to have to shake that – ”

Charles cursed and sat down on his unmade bed. He rubbed his face with one hand while discreetly sliding his half-full tumbler further back on the bedside table with the other, “Wait, just ... wait. What are you talking about? What _case_?”

Raven exhaled, more noisily than was really called for. “The boys' case. The Summers brothers? Please tell me you – ”

Charles gave her a look. “Yes, of course I remember the Summers, Raven. Don't go painting me like a lout because you neglected to include pronouns. I wasn't expecting this on my holiday, is all.” He reached for the drawer to the table and rummaged around the debris – wallet, sliced club wristband, receipts – for a cigarette and lighter. He felt like he would need them. Oh god, did she say _call Morgan_?

“Their _trial_ , Charles. The bastards moved it up, it's happening tomorrow afternoon.”

He was so right about that cigarette. He lit it and said through pinched lips and a cloud of smoke, “And how the hell are we finding this out just _now_? What did Morgan say?”

“Someone from the local office screwed up, I don't know. Like I said, Morgan wants you to call him.”

Charles suppressed a groan; the family lawyer was as old as he was competent and tended to treat Charles more like a misbehaving grandson than a valued client. Raven's voice firmed. “What matters is that we get over to those boys before they're sentenced and shipped to god-knows-where.”

“They're practically children, they can't be too harsh on them,” he said absently. He fiddled with his cigarette and studied her for a moment. She was in her typical Station guise, all smooth pale complexion and hair like she was from some gated colony on Slokovia and not the streets of Mirador. Even with the care she was taking in her appearance, he could still see the strain around her eyes, the stressed line of her mouth. He wished for a moment that he was there to get a bead on her thoughts and feelings in person.

_Cerebro?_

The ship clicked and aligned with his mind. _Yes, Charles?_

 _Please insure that Raven gets some sleep tonight. Turn off all comms and lock the doors if you have to_.

The ship's voice, always placid, took on a hint of reservation. _I'm not sure she'll appreciate my efforts, Charles._

_Tell her they're my orders. She won't hold it against you for too long. And it's not like Hank will stop your maintenance schedule._

_Yes, Charles._

Charles nodded at Raven. “I'll call Morgan right away, you should get some sleep.”

Raven rolled her eyes and waved her tablet pointedly at him. “Not all of use are on holiday, Charles. I'll sleep after I get a few more things crossed off my list. And I'll sleep _better_ when I know they're done.”

Charles smiled, “As you wish.”

They bid each other good night and ended the call. Charles stared at the dark screen for a moment, fingers already poised to put the comm in for Morgan. He paused; there was simply no reason for him to completely spoil his night with this whole ordeal.

He reached for the abandoned tumbler.

–

Morgan sighed and removed his reading glasses. He tossed them down on top of the desk and regarded Charles with a heavily furrowed grey brow. Charles knew what was coming. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes like a sulky youth as his lawyer began speaking. He did, however, make a rude gesture safely below the screen's view; Morgan just brought that kind of thing out in him.

“Xavier, I've counseled your family for more than forty-five years – ”

“ – _not_ a point in your favor, really.” Charles said under his breath.

Morgan ignored him, “When you came to me and said you wanted to liquidate most of your parents' estate, I did not question you – ”

“Oh, _that's_ a load of – ”

“ – _overly much_. When you amended your will to leave the entirety of your holdings to a girl you'd just met – don't scowl, Xavier, you know I'm very fond of Ms. Darkholme, but at the time it seemed a tad rash. However, I did not stand in your way. And when you announced that your sole plan for the future was to start some kind of ...commune up in the black – ”

“ – a school, Morgan, a _school_. It's been four years, how do you still not grasp this concept?”

“Fine, a school.” Morgan frowned at him. “But through all of this, I have stood by and supported you, however you needed.”

“Yes. That's what I _pay you to do_ ,” Charles reminded him.

Morgan sailed on unperturbed, “But what you want to do now is too reckless to countenance.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Charles said, throwing himself back into his chair.

“If you're going to start messing around with the criminal element, it's going to raise your risk profile considerably – ”

“Morgan,” Charles said. Something about the tone of his voice seemed to get through to the man, because he fell silent and only the slightest twitch of his wrinkled mouth betrayed annoyance. Charles continued, “It's done, I'm involved. Now tell me where I need to be and what I need to do to get those boys free.”

And with a loud sigh, the old lawyer did.


	3. Chapter 3

Fourth evening and it's not even a question when Charles stops off at the shop around the corner from his hotel, it's a foregone conclusion.

Charles gave the doorman of his hotel a subdued greeting and made his way silently up to his room with downturned eyes.

Used to be, he'd start off coy. Back when he was still in grad school and before Raven was living with him, once the deed was done and he'd bought his provisions for the night – he'd _wait_. Put it off, tinkered around with dinner or a book, savoring the feeling of having all those drinks if front of him, the absolute security of it.

Now, he entered his hotel room, immediately shaking the bottle free of the shop bag, which drifted down to the carpet. He twisted off the plastic cap and poured a generous amount of whiskey into one of the provided glasses. His first drink was taken standing over his still unmade bed, the early evening light angling in through the windows to highlight the amber as it disappeared.

The first few drinks are no more than a distancing tactic. He still needed to comm Raven, give her all the details of what happened at the trial, schedule his rendezvous because he wasn't really in the mood to finish out his holiday away from his ship and crew. Probably needed to comm Morgan, which would for once be the easier call to make.

–

The N'Jadaka County Courthouse had been an imposing building, built deliberately in a more Genoshan style than what was regularly found throughout Wakanda. It sat as a bookend to the same street that housed City Hall and was three blocks away from the Capitol.

So not an inconspicuous location for a mutant to wander into with any sort of agitated intentions.

It was a scene he had once fit in, as far as upbringing went. The other people on that street had been most professionally dressed, walking fast, occupied with ongoing comms or work. The tall buildings framed the scene, an implicit warning to any who did not belong.

It had still been an absurdly easy task to assume the harmless bland persona of one who belonged on that street; people saw any bloke of his height and made all sorts of silly assumptions. Evolutionary loose-ends from millennia past that Charles had absolutely no embarrassment or compunction taking advantage of.

He'd hesitated only a moment before entering the dampening field of the building.

–

“I don't understand. Who did these boys anger so badly?”

Morgan looked at him critically, “Have you not been paying attention to Wakandan news lately? The whole Empire's talking about little else – tensions rising, riots in the cities. Some damn fool attempted to assassinate the entire SI board of directors – ”

“Right, well, good on them,” Charles muttered into his glass.

Morgan leveled a stern finger at him. “You shouldn't talk that way. Sebastian Shaw is one of the most prominent mutant leaders around, you know damn well that his death would only be a setback. Xavier, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “Anti-mutant parties gained seats in Parliament back in March for the first time in _two decades_. And this whole business at the orphanage attracted a lot of negative news coverage; the public was against those boys. You can't shoulder the blame for any of this.”

“They're just _kids_ , how could they send them to the _Rim_?” Charles knew he himself sounded young and bewildered, the exact kind of face he hated showing Morgan, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.

“Mutants are never just children to the public eye, Xavier. You know this.”

“But it was an _accident_ ,” Charles said.

“An accident that killed two humans,” Morgan said. “Hard-working, selfless public workers. Not to mention the whole incident will have cost the state a considerable sum when the cleanup, medical, and reconstruction is all said and done.”

Charles could feel a snarl starting to pull at his lips, “If _that's_ what they bloody well care about, I'll pay for all of it!”

Morgan paused, eyes narrowed as if assessing the seriousness of Charles's words. “You don't want that kind of visibility,” he said at last.

But Charles suddenly saw merit in the idea. “No, but listen: it would be good press for mutants, wouldn't it?”

“Nonsense. Think about it for a moment, Xavier.” Morgan leaned forward. “A windfall of money like that – best case scenario, people will cry corruption and say mutants are trying to buy their way out of trouble. Worst case, it'll fire up the mutant conspiracy panic again.”

Bizarrely, Charles found himself barely containing a laugh; it all sounded so preposterous. He knew he needed to take it seriously, so he was silent for a moment. Eventually he said, “Fine, how about that good old fashioned corruption then? Slip a bribe to an official or someone at the municipal holding center, let the boys slip away – ”

“It's too high profile, Xavier,” Morgan said, as gently as Charles has ever heard him. “They're on lock-down.” The old lawyer looked at him for a long moment before sighing. “Your only window of opportunity for,” he waggled his gnarled fingers, the same shorthand for telepathy that he had used since Charles was first tested as a boy, “might be the day they're transferred. The transport shuttle should be docked for a couple of hours.” He fixed Charles with a hard gaze. “If you're going to do something reckless, boy, best do it then.”

After ending the call, Charles stood out on his room's balcony for a long time, staring out over the city and wondering what he could possibly do.

–

The Summers brothers had barely reacted to the verdict at first.

Charles knew their ages – and regularly worked with children and teenagers, what's more – but it was still unbelievable how young they looked, standing there at the front of the room and being told that their lives were essentially over.

The elder, Scott, had stiffened for all of a moment before his mouth crumpled and he curled forward, covering his blindfolded face in shaking hands. Alex had stared in complete uncomprehending shock up until the point when the bailiff jostled him to move. Then he shook himself and started to yell.

“You can't do this – I'm _sorry_ , okay, god I'm so fuckin' sorry but you can't – you can't do this to us, _please_ – ”

The bailiff reached for the boy again and was met with the steel arm of Scott, who was suddenly standing and grabbing his brother. Alex collapsed as soon as Scott had a hold of his shoulder and sobbed messily into his brother's neck.

Charles had sat in the back of the room, useless and incapable of doing anything but watching.

–

Used to be, he played the numbers game – how many drinks had he had, what was the alcohol by volume percentage of the drink, how many drinks were left, how many hours had he been drinking, how many until he went to bed, how much water had he had – all a constant calculation running beneath the night like gambling stats. Like the right combination of numbers would have him turning up aces.

Now, he didn't count, and he didn't call Raven.

–

He woke up on the floor with unfamiliar minds pressing in on him, thoughts wavering in and out like a trumpet player sliding a mute over the bell.

He groped around for his comm and, failing to find it, gritted his teeth and sat up. Light was streaming in through the windows, but he couldn't begin to guess at the time. Ignoring his pounding head and vague nausea, he climbed all the way up to standing and went to go splash water on his face. The face in the mirror was bloodshot and drawn, the picture of a failure.

He was still vaguely drunk, so there was still some salvaging of the day. He didn't bother changing his clothing, just shrugged on the jacket to the suit he'd worn to the trial the day before and went downstairs to the hotel patio.

Charles ordered a mimosa, and sat waiting for it. He could feel them all around him, all the minds pressing in with their petty concerns and annoyances of another day.

Didn't those Summers boys deserve to exist like that? Didn't they deserve to live long, mundane lives full of such thoughts and feelings?

Charles felt Cerebro reach out, gently probing his consciousness and settling in with a quiet effusion of concern. Charles set his glass down and hung his head, taking in the warm morning air, the close ever-present chatter of the city around him.

 _It's fine_ , he thought to the ship.

 _You seem melancholic, Charles,_ Cerebro said in response, the closest it would ever get to disagreeing with him. The ship always seemed to pick up a little defiance in its programming after it spent a few days in Raven's mind.

Charles hardened. _It's fine._

It would have to be, wouldn't it?

His drink arrived.

–

Almost two hours later, Charles was on his third drink. The day was looking a lot brighter, though that might have just been the afternoon sun creeping over the line of buildings.

“Buddy, you even had breakfast yet?” The young waiter was eyeing him apprehensively.

And here Charles thought he was in a cosmopolitan city.

“Why, you offering?” He said with an expression that started as a leer but quickly veered off into confusion: wrong scene, damn.

The waiter stopped looking disconcerted and assumed a vaguely impatient, _oh he's a drunk_ look. “Look, I could bring you some toast? Maybe a bagel?”

Charles grunted an answer, he didn't know what, and the boy scurried off. Charles was all set to return to his new drink – a beer, because it was approaching lunch and it seemed more socially appropriate, though it wasn't a local brew, no, he was punishing himself with Madripoor Quartz – when his comm beeped and lit up.

Flicking it on, he saw it was from Morgan's office, a forward of the shuttle's manifest and schedule. Without really thinking about it beyond a flash of bitterness, he opened it up. Maybe it was just an automatic movement or maybe he figured he needed to burn the sight of the Summers boys' names bound for the Rim into his memory before he got completely wasted.

There were about 25 poor fuckers listed for the _Caspartina_. He scanned it halfway down, saw the boys' entries, the monthlong journey to the Rim all laid out clear and cold and felt his stomach turn over sickly.

“Poor unlucky bastards,” he mumbled into his tipped beer.

“Here's some toast,” the waiter said, returning and setting a plate down at Charles's elbow. He eyed the mostly empty beer glass but did not ask if Charles wanted a refill.

“Look, it's been a real shit day,” Charles informed him.

The boy nodded uneasily and retreated. Charles resumed staring at the comm.


	4. Chapter 4

Fifth day, and okay, Charles was _plastered._

And. And he was walking. The determined, jagged lurch of a man on a _mission_. He had places to be, would-be students to save.

_Cerebro?_

The ship was there immediately, like it had been keeping tabs on him the whole time. _Yes, Charles?_

 _Listen very carefully. This –_ Charles paused at the corner of a block to steady himself – _this is an executive order. Okay?_

X-Orders, Raven called them, always with a slight edge to her voice. They were his most serious protocols for Cerebro, ones the ship had to carry out no matter what, because they couldn't be countermanded by anyone other than Charles. Charles had only used the protocol a few times, mostly because he liked to run the ship more democratically and a little because they made Raven act strange and stiff for a few days afterward.

_Yes, Charles, what do you require?_

Charles blinked around the street corner, marveling at all the people walking around like they weren't about to do something insanely stupid. His head was spinning, but he was able to communicate with the ship as easily and clearly as ever – the ship's consciousness was built around his own, there was no Cerebro without Charles.

_You're not to allow Raven or Hank to come stop me. They must – maintain their distance. Wait. Until we're out somewhere safe, and I get in touch with you again._

The ship sounded vaguely peevish. _Yes, Charles. Am I allowed to share your plans with Raven and-or Hank?_

Charles shrugged into the crosswalk and staggered gamely on. _Tomorrow morning, sure. Once I'm safely away._

Cerebro could read his mind, so obfuscation wasn't possible. _You mean once you've left Wakanda aboard the prison ship?_ The ship stretched its programming to its fullest extent with that tone. Or maybe Charles's perception of it was colored by his own better judgment, which had been jabbering feverishly in the back of his mind since he drew himself up from the patio table and started walking.

 _Exactly_.

He walked another couple of blocks before another thought struck him with some urgency. _Oh, and Cerebro?_

_Yes, Charles?_

_Whatever you do, don't let Raven tell Morgan about this._ _He'll never let me hear the end of it._

 _I'm fairly sure_ Raven _will never let you hear the end of it, Charles._

–

The truth – the real truth, the one that would haunt Charles down his days – was that he never could be sure if he would have done _anything_ for the Summers if he hadn't been drunk that day.

A more practical mindset might have prevailed before he violently slammed open the door of that prisoner processing center.

Sober thoughts and priorities might have overruled him blindly shoving aside a surprised guard and yelling bloody murder to the lobby of nonplussed admin clerks and waiting petty criminals.

A clearer mind might have lent more finesse but not as much determination as he planted two unsteady fingers against his own temple and flipped the right levers in countless minds to insure his passage to a cold, horrific death.

–

He was pretty far gone by the time he was thrown in the holding cell and barely aware of anything but desperate psychic lethargy by the time they were shoved to standing up, chained, and made to shuffle along the long corridors to the transport yard.

He vaguely recalled meeting up with the boys.

(Alex wrinkled his nose, “Is he _drunk_?”

“Shut _up_ , Alex, I'm sure it's part of the plan,” Scott said.)

And he remembers falling back to rest against a wall whenever he was allowed.

The wall was cold metal that leeched the false alcoholic warmth from his skin wherever it touched. Charles half-dozed for an indeterminate while and dreamed of Cerebro agitatedly flashing its lights in worry as Raven and Hank poured over its controls in confusion and mounting panic.

He didn't remember being shoved to standing or lined up and chained, but he found himself listing alongside a grim-faced woman in Forge Restraints as they were ordered to walk out of the building.

The late afternoon sun made his vision dim for a second as they shuffled along towards the shuttle waiting at the end of a long dusty line of corrections vehicles. Charles widened his eyes, blinked, shook his head – anything to clear his vision and mind from the horrific drunken miasma that he could barely remember agreeing to. There's no way he would have drank this much willingly, right, right, what was he doing right now, where was he _going –_

The sun abruptly vanished behind the cover of the hatch, and he tripped on the shuttle ramp as his eyesight failed to adjust to the lighting.

The shuttle was strangely cold for being a metal box baking in the sun. He could barely make out the other figures in it as he shuffled along and finally sat down. All he knew was relief at finally being allowed to stop moving. He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his head rest back against the wall.

But then there was – _something_.

It was familiar; his mind recognized it. Its structure and mental texture called up a dizzying combination of _deja vu_ and guilt and grief and it all broke through the buzz of _too-drunk_ and the Summers' fear and Cerebro's distant concern. Charles frowned and opened his eyes.

Opening his eyes was a mistake. His vision swam and his stomach lurched. His mouth watered, and he clamped down on his lips to hold it all in. Blinking in confusion, he looked around and –

 _And right there_ –


End file.
